


Fire Cannot Help Its Nature

by SecretlyThranduil



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27087343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretlyThranduil/pseuds/SecretlyThranduil
Summary: "He was called the Spirit of Fire all too truly, for he burned beautifully and blazed brighter than others, but if untamed could become uncontrollable and it was all too easy for those around him to get burned.Fire cannot help its nature, but that does not make it any less destructive."Why did Fëanor love light the way that he did, and what fuelled his creativity? This is the side of his story we hear less, the story of the Spirit of Fire who burned too brightly to be contained.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6
Collections: Innumerable Stars 2020





	Fire Cannot Help Its Nature

**Author's Note:**

  * For [babyRage_lyla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyRage_lyla/gifts).



There are few things that Fëanor loved more than light. You could perhaps call it an obsession. His first memory was that of the stars, bright starlight, the colour of his mother’s hair.

But then that light went out.

The stars should have been the one light to never go out.

And so that bright child was left in the dark.

So, it is perhaps unsurprising why he loved the light as he did; an attempt to counter that unnatural darkness, to mitigate the fear from the first light that went out in his life. His first act was one of destruction, and so he devoted his energy to creation instead, to show those who scorned him that he was capable of something pure. He longed to create something beautiful, a light that would last forever. And so, he did.

It was very early in his life that Fëanor first tried to create a light of his own, a light that he could keep near him at all times. One that would not go out, would not flicker and die. He was driven towards his goal by his own internal flame, brighter than that of his brothers, ever working alone and seeking the counsel of none but his wife; for in his mind, he had ever been alone, and it was safer for him to remain so.

The first gems of light which Fëanor created blazed with blue and silver fires when set under the starlight he so loved, burning brighter than Helluin, the brightest star in Varda’s skies. Although these were his first creations of everlasting light, they did not truly reflect his soul. For Fëanor’s colours were a myriad of red and gold, and these gems were the colours of his half-brother Fingolfin, who he hated and loved all the same. Perhaps this was a coincidence, or perhaps it was the evidence of a love for his family he dared not to show.

While the creation of light was his ultimate goal, Fëanor was truly a craftsman, and his creations truly pushed his skills to the limit, and like his quest for light, they were fuelled by his very nature. The Palantirí were the creations fuelled by his restless and wandering nature. Him and his sons seldom abode in one place for long, enjoying the long travels across every corner of Valinor where few others dared to go, even to the borders of the Dark and the cold shores of the Outer Sea. But this was not always possible. His desire to be elsewhere could not always be fulfilled. He wanted to see everywhere, to learn all he could about the land he called home. But what started out as a curiosity later became paranoia. What was the desire to see everywhere became the urge to watch everyone, to protect himself, even from those he called his family.

Fëanor’s greatest creations often became his pitfalls.

Three in particular.

The Silmarils were forged when Fëanor had come to his full might, when that great and terrible fire within him could no longer be contained.

He had long been fascinated with the light of the Two Trees, and questioned how their beauty may be preserved, how he could make an imperishable light which would not abandon him. This was not an act of greed, not at first, but a desire to protect and preserve for those around him. But nevertheless, this endeavour corrupted him, and once the Silmarils were complete, he never wanted to give up that light. The light would not leave him, not again.

Perhaps it was not his fault that he could not give up his creations, for he had poured his own inner fire into their making, incorporating his very soul into the mingled light of the Two Trees. To give them up would be to give up a part of himself.

Even in the darkness of the deepest treasury of Formenos, the Silmarils shone like starlight without the help of Varda’s own stars, a far cry from his earliest attempts. This everlasting light was what Fëanor had sought to hold all his life; he had felt trapped in the dark for as long as he could remember and finally, his creations could counter that cold dark that always seemed to follow him.

Because Fëanor had poured his soul into these creations, put all that he was into them, the Silmarils were as alive as he was. Like him, they rejoiced in light and shone more beautiful than anything that came before, but he knew deep down that the Silmarils held his heart in thrall. There was too much of himself in them for him not to become corrupted by their fire.

But Fëanor was an everlasting light in his own way. His birth had consumed Miriel’s body and spirit, an accidental mar on his being forever, but one that changed him in a way it did no other. The strength that would have nourished the life of many went forth into Fëanor, and his own body and spirit grew as if a secret fire were kindled within him. A fire that burned within his eyes for all to see, one that was a reflection of his soul.

He was called the Spirit of Fire all too truly, for he burned beautifully and blazed brighter than others, but if untamed could become uncontrollable and it was all too easy for those around him to get burned.

Fire cannot help its nature, but that does not make it any less destructive.


End file.
